


Blue Eyes, Red Hands

by kaetastic



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Language, Smut, this is my first post on ao3, yay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:40:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25053283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaetastic/pseuds/kaetastic
Summary: Thomas Shelby grazes his eyes upon an unaccompanied figure on the bar, despite the exhausting, enjoyable night, he mistook the woman as innocent. She was not who he thought she was.
Relationships: Thomas Shelby/Changretta!Reader, Thomas Shelby/Reader, Tommy Shelby/Reader
Kudos: 26





	Blue Eyes, Red Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Heyo! This is my first post on AO3 and I'm very excited! You can check me out on tumblr at kaetastic for more writings!

_Red_ — Thomas Shelby hasn’t noticed the occasional (more like countless) appearance of the fiery colour in his life that popped up endlessly which seemed to only surround him. Despite being a gangster who had spilt litres of blood and drained people of the substance, he might as well declare red as his favourite colour. _Blood. Fire._ Coincidentally, it was also the colour of her silk dress that hugged her figure graciously, the devil-like heels, and the smeared paint over her lips. The woman who swirled a rock glass in her hand hadn’t craned up her neck from the cup, too enchanted by the twirling hurricane in the liquor. 

Although Thomas wasn’t attending the bar for business reasons or to analyze possible business partners, he refrained himself from creating more _ties_ with other people; even though there was a temptation he had been trying _so hard_ to suppress down underground ever since he had stepped into the bar. Well, despite the horror sitting in his house, he needed to step out of the arrow house for a quick sip of whiskey that was not in the walls of his home. Thomas had already dealt with _several_ firebacks from knowing too many people for his own good. _Could he be blamed though?_ Thomas Shelby _was_ a businessman.

Thomas didn’t want to admit it, but seeing her figure alone and sole on the stool of the bar had flickered something in him. The gangster did not want to admit that he had been staring at her from the moment her heels sparkled under the hazy blur of the bar. _No one approached her_. Although it sounded saddening and pitiful since it could not be applied the same to Thomas, he had assumed it was the aura floating around her. _Gypsy bullshit_. There were lines of red and purple dancing on her counter, radiating from her. _Guilt and power_. Of course, glances were hurled onto the lonely woman who was on her third glass of whiskey; however, no one made a move. _Until now_. 

Midway pacing to the bar, polished shoes glistening under the hazy, dim light of the bar, Thomas wasn’t sure when he had even got up from the seat that he had claimed a second ago. The wooden table that cowered in a blurry corner was cast with a smear of shadow, darkness lurking from every angle, ready to engulf it once the night ends, and the door had been locked. Stranded alone, the shadow the Birmingham gangster had been accompanying had no other option but to defend itself against the misty black that lorded over. 

There were questions in a continuous reflection in the walls of his brain such as _to how his legs even moved that fast_. Maybe it was because of the excessive walking he had done in the bright morning, dashing from his room to room, and hallways to branching ones when he had received the mails from his maid. Although the previous day he was at a meeting (an added factor to his muscle exhaustion), which had been nothing but boring, the gangster had to state that he enjoyed some meetings because there was a goal he could achieve (or he had the upper hand of the situation). 

However, Thomas had to sit in a chair that was chewed on by a colony of starving bunnies who had been realized as soon as they were on the edge of delirious. It was on the brink of collapsing, its quivering, muscle-less legs were ready to give up. The man knew if he had rested his left leg properly and comfortably, Thomas would’ve met the floor with a crash. The Birmingham gangster had two things in mind, his pride and his accurate reading of the current in the air (a gypsy thing). _Some men were just fucking sly._

Or, maybe it was due to his forever changing age that would _never_ reverse back. Thomas could not ignore the surging aching of his muscles. Yanking the strings to his brain even though the main consultant of decisions barely had time to digest the request, his calf had been the gun to a starting indication of the race to begin. Just like that of an amateur horse, the top half of his body only comprehended the situation he could not back out once he was on the path. He could’ve stopped. He should’ve probably turned around to scream at whoever dared to take his seat he had just left vacant. Thomas Shelby didn’t stop. 

Despite the card with a prominent black hand resting on the desk of his lavish estate, the drinks in the building could not blur the mess of thoughts in his head. The mess he had created and now, he had to clean it all back up. After spilling more Italian blood who had managed to tiptoe into his house, he needed to get out of the building. All the bottle of liquor on the alcohol stand tasted the same; they all did not do their job as he was here, in a bar, _still_ sober. _Fucking Italians and the mafia behind his back but here he was, out in the open, approaching a woman_. He nearly chuckled as the words vibrated in his head in his aunt’s scolding voice. Oh, to how she would react to him right now. _If only she was there to restrain him_. 

His icy blue eyes grazed over hers, strings gushing out of their pupils sprung onto one another in surges of shocks. Her gaze that met his electrifying blue eyes sent jolts of volts through his clenching tissues. As an approaching figure made way towards her way, Y/N turned her focus back towards her cup. A rush threaded through her veins; she could hear her thrumming heart in her ears. _Was it intimidation? Had she hoped that he approached her?_ She had felt eyes blaring on her back while she enjoyed her drink, but never did she bring herself to hurl a glance despite her growing curiosity. Although his frigid blue iris was a work of art, a priceless sculpture planted on a mount, she somehow managed to pull away from it. There was no glass in his hands which could _only_ mean that he needed a drink. It didn’t mean he was approaching _her_ … right?

The brick walls of defence she started to build in a haste when their eyes met collapsed. Specks of dust swam in the air as his body leaned against the bar, only a few inches between their arms, not too scandalous; respectful, “Whiskey, neat.” With a sniff for air, Y/N knew she was no longer safe. There was a prominent smear of cigarette and a dying tone of whiskey plastered around him. The type of men she had been taught and warned not to dance with. The hoarseness of his voice sent shivers down her spine, spiking up her legs. Bopping his head, the bartender was quick to dash away to prepare the drink. Despite the freshly opened bottle of whiskey that was used to refill her glass, the bartender went to whisk out another one.

Furrowing her eyebrows in confusion, she sipped on the intoxicating liquid. Ticks cried out, seconds clicked to the next at an agonizing pace. There was something stirring up, something warm and tensed as if scorching on the sun. Power radiated around the man, circling around him in never-ending loops. The distance between their arms was only six inches, however, Y/N couldn’t deny the fact that whatever he gave off, it wasn’t good for her health. Fingers swiftly yet gingerly opening the metal cigarette case, Thomas pulled one stick out before shoving it in front of the woman.

Y/N glanced at the array of the white dresses on the cig that sat in between her and her drink, “I don’t smoke.” Straying for a second, his index finger flapped the casing shut before hurling it back into his coat. While she sipped on the drink, thoughts resounding of the walls of her head in clashes of metal crying, Thomas took a drag of the lit cigarette after he ran it over his lips.

“Why’s that?” Y/N’s eyes clicked onto his. Not a smooth path of guidance but a snap as if the opposite poles of a magnet. The _dying_ act of attraction. A thread of ice plastered a strand in his eyes of a blue, cloudless sky. Though, the lazy dancing of the smoke hovered over his orbs, smeared a hazy blur of the puffy mists. Her eyes ran back to her whiskey.

“My brother thinks it’ll kill me early.” Despite Thomas’s reluctant decision on presenting himself to the bar (a good feeling because he just got the fucking black hand), he hated to admit it, but he was happy he had done the opposite of what his gut told him. The same gut that believed that Alfie Solomons had betrayed him; the same gut that knew his relation and ties to the Russian would’ve been the death of Grace. Might as well find the sparkling, hidden jewel of the night beneath the layers of obnoxious people.

With the glass of whiskey finally on the bar, he took a sip of a familiar liquid after chuckling, although, there was a twinge of bitterness to the liquor he wasn’t so familiar with, “So, you listen to what he says like a good dog?” Y/N’s eyes beamed to his, narrowing to read him. _Where was the man going with this?_ He barely introduced himself and he had already wanted to strike up an _argument_. “I think your brother’s wrong. Go through a pack of these days by day meself. Here I am, still alive.”

The tone of his voice was swirled with whiskey, coated with a smear of sweetness yet the way it rolled of his tongue sounded as if he expected himself to be buried in the ground already, “I listen to him because, without him, I would be on the streets,” Y/N practically hissed, throwing a whip at the man. It was true. Despite the cold exterior of her older brother, Luca had been nothing but a gentle pillow when he’s with his family. However, a soft feather when anything involved with his baby sister. A true Italian. His never-ending love for his sister was something her own mother and father could barely compete with.

Even though Y/N could’ve been already married and possibly birth out children of her own just like her other cousins, Luca had been the one to shake his head. Y/N had no occupation, no sense of work. All because of her older brother who justified his disagreement to sending her off to a man or having her work, by saying that she was the youngest. Indeed, the youngest. _She’s just a baby, mama_. Without a second thought, they listened with their ears wide open to the oldest. If Luca was out the picture, she would’ve probably had a ring around her finger. “Plus, I’m sure your lungs have given up on your… _routine_.”

The corners of his lips curled up, finding her wiggling finger at his cig amusing, “Then tell me, what’s a woman like you sitting here alone?” Quirking up an eyebrow at the man, Y/N stared into his ocean-like eyes.

“A woman like me? When he nodded, a faint smirk straying on his lips, Y/N scoffed. “Is that how you approach women? Bash their choices and talk about the reasons to why they don’t smoke? Without having the decency to introduce yourself? What a gentleman.”

Thomas didn’t bat an eye when she rolled her eyes, clearly done with his interruption of her night. After a drag of his cigarette and a clear of his throat, he held out his palm, calloused fingertips ready to run over her velvety ones, “I’m Thomas.” Y/N tapped her fingers on her thighs, drumming with the beating seconds for him to continue for the last name. But the quirk of his eyebrow and shake of his empty hand, she knew that was all he would give her. _Just_ Thomas. _Fine then, that is how it is._

The warmth of his hand was a blanketed temperature of blistering, hot ammo that had been fired seconds ago. Though, it plunged down to the deepest of the frigid, ocean, where no light dared to enter, “Y/N.” Frigid lips pressed against her knuckles. All of the tissues and muscles packed around her rib bones limped, body failing to stabilize at the electrifying shocks from his touch. A thread of smoke smeared along the bump of her knuckles swirled in with the bitter whiskey.

Why had the gangster said a fragment of his nickname? Was he guilty of using an alias? Had he truly not bothered to create possible future business ties? Thomas Shelby’s eyes may be less weak with rotting age, but he could see something sizzling in the air. _Another gypsy shit_. Puffs of smoke danced in between them while chatters and a faint sound they called _music_ trickled into their ears, “You from America?”

The woman nodded at his inquiry, the corners of her lips curling up from the brilliant idea in her head, “Just curious or you want to add an American to your list?”

“What list?” Thomas mumbled, stabbing the stick into an ashtray before showing off his pearly white teeth. “I don’t keep count.”

Y/N wasn’t sure why and _how_ she still had her dress on. Or to why there was barely a prominent crease or wrinkle of the fabric. Despite the sizzling air in the closed vehicle, the only two people in the car had somehow managed to keep their hands to themselves. There were only a few words exchanged between the man who was driving the woman to his house, to which she would only reply back with a short word. Y/N feared that answering long sentences would reveal her quivering chords from the shameless thoughts in her head. The night was getting older, inching towards the cackling _alarm_ birds. And it was no summer. It was a brutal winter of clouds evaporating from mouths, ready to pierce into the soil ground after it freezes into blade-like icicles.

Heat and warmth from a fireplace could ever do so much, but if it was to be placed on the battlefield of furious wind and gale, it would be an unfair fight. The silvery thread of moonlight sprinkled over the black hood of the car, painting an oil smears of a single grey tone. Yet, a priceless painting that one would only be able to see in a too late of a night and a too early of a morning. Fingernails furling into the fuzzy pouch, Y/N chewed on her bottom lip as she tried her best to not think too much about what the night had for her. However, with every creative idea, the heat between her legs was accompanied by a familiar wetness. 

There was no doubt that she knew the man driving would see the incessant shifting of her legs, pressing onto one another as if the seat had been prickling and uncomfortable. It didn’t take the gangster long to piece the information which was backed up by her staggering breathing. Even though the notorious Birmingham gangster was somewhat known for his icy face of a wall and his strong, unwavering stance on a stoic expression, he couldn’t help the curling of his lips.

That was when awestruck the woman. Fading through the mist of shadow was a grand house. No, a piece of art that resided in the middle of hairless trees. Warm yellow spheres stood straight, bright despite the late hours of the night. Even though Y/N’s upbringing had the mafia as a factor, she was never involved in any scene. With Luca as an older brother spoiling her, something Angel had barely given a point since he was too busy occupying himself (mostly meddling in things he shouldn’t have), she thought she had seen all of it. From marble museums, valuable coffee sets, dress worth a town, and natural landscapes that even a painting or a picture would not be able to capture its beauty. She _thought_.

The Italian had no idea why she spent her childhood in New York with her older brother even though she could’ve lived in England. Well, she gave a penny to the thought that it was _most likely_ Luca who had given the idea to their parents. When Luca had been of age and she, too, he had requested his parents to let her live with him in New York even though they were making future plans for her in England. Somehow, the eldest crawled through their hearts. She wasn’t sure how different she would be if she was to grow up in England. 

Once the car twirled around a statue, and it halted in front of the archway that led to the front door, Thomas did not waste a second to turn the engine off. The furious breeze of the wind kissed him once he sauntered out of the vehicle, it slashed through his oversized coat and pierced into his skin mercilessly. But he did not care. He couldn’t give a fuck what stood against him, all he needed was this relief.

Still recovering from the freezing wind that managed to seep into the car when Thomas opened his door, Y/N shivered at the familiar numbing sensation she had been shielded from an hour ago. The frigid temperature embedded a blade into her skin, dragging the sharp weapon down her body to cut off any possible way for her to even feel the hand splayed behind her back. However, the warm puffs of air that smelt and tasted of cigarettes and liquor smeared against her tongue, a fire sparking to roar in the midst of the bedding of ice. 

It filled up her parched mouth, warming her throat even though her skin felt like it had been dipped in water of the coldest winter. Her fingers fiddled with his hair, weaving through the luscious locks before tugging on it when his hands descended. There was nothing else in her head as the scent of him coated her lungs, engraining his marking on the walls of her chest. Despite his body curving into hers for the desperate friction and caress of her skin, it wasn’t enough.

No words were exchanged as Thomas rummaged through his coat for the golden key to his house. He had already informed his maids that he would be heading out to clear his mind in case the night became old so they wouldn’t have to be frantic at who slammed the door shut. While his tongue was brushing over her innocent one, his fingers fumbled with the lock, key quivering to brush around the hole. 

Thomas wasn’t sure why his hands were wavering, maybe it was from the frigid breeze or it was the fact that her moans had caused his pants to yank tight around his legs; his knees wobbled, suddenly drenched clothing from a furious rainfall. It wasn’t prominent, but Thomas had a faint assumption that he might’ve been the first man she had been with who was _tainted_. Tainted as in the sense of sludge from crawling underground. Tainted as in the sense of the blood that had been spilt on his hands. Tainted as in he was the devil.

Sighing into his lips, the key was long forgotten onto the concrete floor as her back was met with the icy walls. A coat of ice smeared along the house; however, it was not as daring as the wind, “Thomas… _fuck_ …” A staggering exhale trickled into the air when his lips met with the soft, sensitive skin under her ears. Legs wrapped around his waist, all Y/N wanted to do was tear off the barrier standing between the two.

Thomas felt piercing bites of her freezing fingers on his cheeks. However, after adapting and growing up with the familiar weather, his hands had been immune to the temperature. There was no concern that the two were visibly in front of his house, his hips in between hers while he prodded his hardening over her damp spot. Lips still moulded with hers, he couldn’t get enough of the magic radiating from her. Another string of curses fell off her lips, “Fuck, just get the fucking door.” Even though Y/N wouldn’t mind the outdoors, the heat between the two was not enough to combat with the windy air.

Thomas swept up the key that sat on the ground, lips swollen and chest heaving. Jabbing it in with precision once he was not focused on the woman, the click sound was then maimed from an engulfing one. The door slammed shut, echoing through the colossal house, followed by the ruffling of clothing, clattering of metal against the floor, and shoes slamming. Tongue caressing one another, Thomas tugged his coat, hurling it onto the wooden floor, not batting an eye to where it landed. The maids will surely place it at its designated place.

The ruckus halted when Y/N’s fingers brushed over the straps of the gun holster that rested on his shoulders comfortably, the gun fluttering its eyelashes innocently. Quirking an eyebrow at the object she didn’t expect to find, Thomas mumbled a reply, “Defence.” Y/N didn’t remember when her red dress was removed but in the corner of her eyes, she saw a glitter sparkling under the blurry light. Although the house was indeed warmer than whatever torture was set up outside, she could feel bumps bulge on her skin from the lack of clothing covering her. The woman was left only in her lace white brassiere, innocent garter, and stocking while the gangster had only stripped off his coat and jacket.

The pair trekked up the wooden stairs, her bare feet brushed over the carpet of that was smeared against the steps. Too enchanted by his hands that ran over her body, Y/N barely had time to admire the workings of art hung onto the rich green wall that had been glistened over by the hazy light from the small lamps residing in the corner of each wall. She could only see flashes of gold; however, she had time to smear the painting of a sole woman in her head. Despite the resounding and loud thoughts in her head, she didn’t bother to raise her voice as they had somehow managed to reach the top of the stairs without halting every minute at each wall. She didn’t know where they were going but Thomas’s arms were wrapped around her bare waist, guiding her while he walked backwards. 

The Italian was intoxicated with the man, not because of the mystery radiating off of him or the stingy smell coating him but his confidence. His confidence was _practically_ glowing from him. A familiar noise of a door slamming even though it was already late at night echoed through the long hallway, Thomas nudged the woman onto the bed, causing her to spring on the mattress lightly. Elbows pierced into the bed, she watched as he tugged every article off his body. His eyes had not wavered from hers which darted to her top teeth peeking out to bite her bottom lips. 

There was no light, now that Y/N noticed, except the natural one blaring through the windows. However, she couldn’t help but note that the room was a spare, not the room he would usually sleep in. The man was anything but plain, the house was decorated at a balance which would only mean it would remain the same conclusion to his bedroom. Unfortunately, the room she assumed (she convinced herself not to jump to the bullet) was just an extra guest room (with a house like that, it would be no surprise for half a dozen of unused rooms), was as empty as it can be. Two windows plastered on one wall, displaying the surrounding forest trees through blurry panes of curtains. A bed without a crease or mark of inhabitants, a table and a chair on the opposite side of the room, and a sole golden-framed painting of a meandering river above the bed. 

It felt like forever before the man finally made way to hover over her body. The familiar heat grazed over her skin, caressing every hair on her. His icy eyes met hers after he had taken the sight ready for him, moonlight smeared over her body. Her skin radiated the grey rays, glowing in spells he didn’t even know existed, entrapping him to bewitching magic. So it did. Thomas ran his hands in a languid pace, thumb prodding into her skin from her shoulder to knead her covered breasts before hastily removing it. God knows where he threw it, but she heard a familiar clash nearby. Lips pressed against her neck, he could see her skin paint a faint red before he trailed down to make a path of it. He could smell the vanilla perfume as if it exasperated out of her skin. All he wanted to do was _ruin_ her. 

There were no words or intention of a conversation whispered between the two, but there were only strings of curses, moans and groans singing in the night air, “ _Thomas_ …” His name dripped into his ears like viscous honey, sweet and addicting; the selfish gangster _needed_ more. Finally making himself a place between her wide-opened legs, he pushed himself deeper into her slick folds without an issue. Wet for him. Once he was deep in her and his fingers brushed away the hairs on her forehead, Y/N hooked her legs around his hips, ready for him to move. 

It was all a blur. She couldn’t remember when he had thrust his hips but all she could recall at the starting point was her head thrown back into the pillow. Her words clogged in the middle of her throat while the prickling strands of Thomas’s hair pierced onto her collarbone. Groans fell off his lips, hips snapping onto hers. The sight of her lidded eyes and parted lips that only screamed his name was one he would not be able to forget. The bed creaked, rattling against the wall mercilessly, most likely punching an indent into the walls. It wasn’t long before Y/N saw stars. Time became non-existent as they lived in their own bubble, however, it was popped once the two chased after their own relief. 

“Fuck. That was a good one, eh?” Y/N giggled, hands smacking his chest before her eyes grazed over the tattoo. Her thumb caressed on the ink, following the path as if scribbling art. There was a wanton sound rippling through the air once Thomas pulled out. The empty feeling was poured with exhaustion and soreness. That night, Thomas fell asleep, ready to embark the journey to the shithole of Watery Lane. A _safe_ place for his family.

The bed creaked as the sole body under the covers attempted to turn on his right. Thomas’s eyes shot open to the metal bars kissing his skin; the feeling of his muscles aching as if it had been suspended over his head for hours. Looped around his wrist was a silk cloth, tightly wrapped around his wrist to the bar. Despite his tries at tugging away to escape its hold, he failed. Miserably. The headboard rattled, creating a noisy commotion just like that of the previous night. The tightness of the cloth nearly cut off his circulation if he continued to incessantly yank back. His calloused fingers of his free hand ran around the fabric in hopes of finding the points where the starting and ending met. He failed.

“Good morning.” The silky voice trickled into his ears in a caress of the finest fabric. The tone of wine and fresh bouquet of flowers that sat in a ceramic vase. The same voice that panted and screamed his name the previous night (or early morning). All coated with lies. Hand still locked to the bar, the gangster pushed himself up, elbows piercing into the mattress while his eyes beamed at the glowing sight.

Resting under the colossal windows, a hazy blur of yellow smeared over the figure who sat on a chair. If Thomas wasn’t attached to the bed, and he inched closer towards her, he could’ve probably taken in the priceless morning view with more details. Thoughts and questions bounced off the walls of his head. _How did he get into this situation? Where were his maids?_ That was thrown out of the window when his eyes shamelessly ran over the figure who sat crisscrossed.

The innocent white stocking grazed upon her skin to settle on her thighs, his markings he had indented prominently visible, accompanied by the garter. Even though his eyes caressed over the lace bra decorating her chest, his eyes darted to the lit cigarette, “Thought you didn’t smoke.”

Dancing swirls evaporated into the air from the stick that dangled between her fingers. Y/N’s eyes finally peeled away from the sheets of papers in her hands. Sheets of paper Luca wouldn’t allow her to hold or even thrown a glance at. Sheets of paper that would be buried deep underground because a glance at a letter meant she was in her older brother’s world. An organization of a different dimension.

“I don’t. But I needed more than whiskey,” Y/N mumbled, taking a drag of the cigarette as she shook the papers in her grasp, eyes still attached to the blotches of ink. Thomas’s eyes grazed over the papers before turning his gaze towards the mysterious woman. Any hints, any clues that gave away her character. No. _None_. All he got was her moans in his ears and the way her skin pressed against his. “Are you trying to read me?”

The corners of her lips curled up at the glorious sight, “Because I’ve read you, Thomas Shelby,” She mumbled, a wavering smirk quivered on her lips. “You took something of mine. Something you won’t be able to give me back. It’s finally nice to meet you despite my brother’s attempts, Mr Shelby. I’m Y/N, Y/N Changretta.”

Thomas had run his ears along many rumours said about him. Despite the people who have learnt to fear what laid beneath the stoic expression of the Birmingham gangster, it had only tainted his ego and pride. But now, an egg was cracked. Piercing fragments of glass shards covered the floor as whatever roared in his veins smeared over his face. His piercing glacier eyes gazed into hers. Y/N could see the patent plaster of teal in his orbs even though she was on the other side of the room.

“You haven’t heard of me,” Y/N stated, already knowing where this would go after she hurled the sheets of paper onto the table. Slices of paper flew in the air before splatting onto the wooden surface. Slightly slouching, she crossed her arms, eyes narrowing onto his figure. The Italian noted the furrow of his eyebrows when she revealed who she was. Thomas Shelby speculated her words, “Luca kept me away from the mafia. We came here after mother told us what happened. Although, I wasn’t there when she told me about the details. I came to England knowing only one name and nothing else, Thomas Shelby.”

The Birmingham gangster brushed over her features he had already ingrained into his head when her chest curved into his body. Thomas hummed, “So what? You’re going to kill me, eh? Is that why you’re here? Fucked me to finish the vendetta?” n

His veins protruded. Ropes of blue rose to the surface of his neck, blush of red creeping up to smear his jaw from rage. _How did he end up in this situation? Fucked a Changretta?_ The same doubt from the previous night resounded off the walls of his head, _if only Polly was here_. The woman would’ve grabbed his cap and cut his eyes even though she was his aunt. _Fucking slept with the enemy_. The corners of Y/N’s lips curled up, slightly amused by his assumption, “No, Thomas,” His name rolled off her tongue as if entertained by the frustration he was displaying. “I fucked you because I snuck out of my room.” Y/N mumbled, standing up while she recalled the time she managed to tiptoe out of the room that had started to narrow onto her. Luca and his protectiveness. 

“Plus, you know how vendettas work. No blood on my hands,” While mumbling the words, she had already put on her dress back which she had to discreetly take. The maids who patrolled around was indeed just like that of a wandering guard. It sat on her figure just like the night before; however, it seemed to be dishevelled, crumpled from the desperate pulling of the gangster’s hands. Despite the coverage of her bare skin, Thomas had already painted a picture of the markings he had littered all over her. Some kisses of red peeked out of the neckline of the dress while blotches of him smeared alongside the side of her neck. Resting his hefty oversized coat on her shoulders, the scent of whiskey and heat from the night before warmed up her lungs, “Till we meet again, Thomas.” 

With the last quirk of her lips, she ambled out of the room. Y/N paced through the hallway knowing the path out of the door from her early awakening to explore the grand building. The skill of sneaking out from the peripherals of Luca’s men had been useful. While the gangster had fallen fast asleep, the woman managed to scurry around the house. It was not her intention to go through his stuff, but once she stumbled upon a cracked door during the adventure to find her articles of clothing that were thrown around haphazardly, she could not help herself. Questions blared in her head, if only she had not entered the office. She wouldn’t have known she slept with the murderer of her father and her older brother.

“Y/N! Fucking get back here and get this fucking shit off of me! Y/N!” 


End file.
